


long dream。

by dimlight



Category: Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You, 終わりのセラフ | Owari no Seraph | Seraph of the End
Genre: AU, Multi, alt title the world ends with yū yeah i said it, ch1: yoichi is presh and yū says so, ch2: yu says he’ll do more than kiss kimizuki’s ass if it means he’ll teach him how to drive., ch3: yu is carried by a prince, in which yu goes on week long fight-for-your-life dates with the squad and mikaela, twewy verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-04-09 18:24:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4359539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dimlight/pseuds/dimlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hyakuya. No name. No memories. (Just visions, only visions. Child corpses and such. Nothing pretty.) </p><p>He's just Hyakuya with a pin. </p><p>(twewy verse au)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Yoichi Saotome

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> imperfect and messy and done just for fun! wanted to get it down and off my chest! paying tribute to a game that made me emotional by the end of it (and still does seven years later y a a a y) 
> 
> super fun, especially throwing in the references, which will show up in future installments. (i thought of fitting a “you watch my behind; i’ll watch yours” joshua quip to yu somewhere but  
> looks at camera and smirks  
> too easy)
> 
> 95% of this fic is already done. it’s really shortーabout 6,ooo words! so I’ll update with the rest sporadically… once a week? once a day? once a fortnight? in three years??? who knows.
> 
>  
> 
> thanks for reading; have a nice day! c8

**week one： day one。**

 

He counts off what he knows for certain as he drifts through the concrete jungle.

  
  


  1. This is Shibuya, Scramble Crossing. He’s been here before. How the hell he knows this is a mystery.

  2. Hyakuya. That’s his family name. Gotta be. It surfaces to mind as soon as he comes to, like this is a the one truth he cannot afford to lose.

  3. He’s about to commit a crime for capital murder, because of some guy that cannot take a hint and _quit following him around already, damn it_.




  
  


He figures this out in six minutes and forty-two seconds. (The exact time down to the secondーthe timer ingrained into his palm is informative and hurts like a _bitch_.)

  
  


What’s it for, anyway? Other than creeping him out. The Guy he’d ditched near Hachikō said something about a game, a pact between them, and some other bullshit.

 

 

Definitely high, that Guy.

  
  


Game? Pact?

  
  


_The hell was he on?_

 

 

He shoves his hands into his pockets, tossing his head here and there to pick out his surroundings. The heart of the city beats on, throbs to life with throngs upon throngs of moving flesh that weave through Shibuya. Noisy. Suffocating. And yet? Hyakuya feels like the only man on this blue rock. Invisible. Alone.

 

He remains unnoticed, walks the streets like a ghost. Haunting like the  _dead_.

  
  


_Am I dead?_ It's supposed to be a joke.

  
  


But his heart swells to a panic. He sweats suddenly.

  
  


Panic. Why is he panicking? It's supposed to be a ridiculous thought, a flight of fancy, a stupid joke. Isn't it?

 

 

Panic. It holds him hostage, feet rooted in place. Chest quivering, he punches his hand to it, fingers clawing at his chest to vainly tear away the _Panic_. 

 

 

Panic interrupted when a shout cries out through the noise, stretches to pull him from his sinking despair like a savior:

  
  


“Hyakuya! There you are. I’ve been looking for you...”

  
  


Saved from the throes of his despair by the very person he’s been trying to avoid. The Guy... What was his name? Yoichi Saotome.

  
  


He celebrates his luck and misfortune with a relieved gasp and hiss.

  
  


“... _Fuck_.”

  
  


**week one： day two。**

  
  


Today’s mission: Same old. Defeat those creatures in the allotted time. What did Yoichi call them? _Noise_?

  
  


Yeah, screw that.

  
  


Hyakuya’s mission: Find a way out. Just like the day before. Simple as that.

  
  


Partners, pacts, whatever the hell it’s called? No. He's not falling for that.

  
  


Creatures creep close, harass them from every which way: And every time, Hyakuya runs. Runs from them, runs from Yoichi Saotome.

  
  


But Yoichi is never too far away, always catches up. Follows him like a lost puppy. Whimpers like one, too.

  
  


“Um...”

  
  


No, a kitten. He’s definitely a lot like a kitten. Mewling like that. 

 

 

Hyakuya shudders at where his thoughts have derailed. Stops it there as he throws a glare over his shoulder at the other.

 

 

“Spit it out.”

  
  


Snapped with venom through gnashed teeth. A meek little jump is his only response.

 

 

Hyakuya gives up and merely keeps walking. Walking where? In circles, of course. Circles and circles until he’s positive he’s getting nowhere. (Because, yeah, like that's going to solve anything, whispers the saner part of him.)

 

 

That doesn’t stop him from doing these meaningless wander-abouts through Shibuya, from the Underpass to the Crossing and to the Park. He just walks, aimlessly. Lost.

  
  


And loyally Yoichi follows, like he's doing now.

  
  


“Is there a reason why you’re always leaving me? You did this on the first day, and... You’ll get killed without me, you know. Yesterday was only luck that we didn’t complete the mission on time. Some others must have. But what ifー”

  
  


“Shut up.” Snapped with even more venom; it kills. “I'll do whatever I want.”

  
  


The guy squeaks a reply to that, but from five strides away Hyakuya can’t hear the details. He'd rather not waste away with some punk who ninety-five percent of the time has his nose buried in his phone, the other five percent spent twiddling his thumbs. Clumsy little shit has better luck running into walls than actually being any value on the field.

  
  


No. Not today. Not _ever_.

  
  


**week one：day three。**

  
  


_"Yoichi!"_

 

 

Damn it, damn it, damn it!

  
  


Huffing, panting, fighting the Noise that stretches and rips at his body. He doesn't care, because he's just fighting. Fighting for the motionless body crumpled on the ground. So, so farーhe keeps fighting, fighting, fighting.

  
  


Why did it have to come to this? Why did he do...  _that_? Hyakuya could have taken the hit himself! Yoichi could have saved himself, damn idiot, and nowー!

 

 

Noise close in around Yoichi's fallen body. The blood in his veins _boil_.

  
  


"Damn it, _get away from him!"_

 

 

A roar, fingers stretching, clawing, bursting through the circle of Noise. To Yoichi: his partner, his _savior_. He owes him. Owes him at least this much.

  
  


He’ll save Yoichi; as Yoichi saved him.

  
  


**week one：day four。**

  
  


Turns out, he’s a pro at this kicking-Noise-ass thing. A natural. Yoichi’s words. Not exactly. Less crudely said, but same idea.

  
  


“You think so?” Hyakuya huffs at the end of one of Yoichi's explosive compliments. Turns his face, cleverly hides the blush rising to his cheeks and scratching at the back of his skull. “I dunno... It’s nothing, really.”  

  
  


This worrying: why he’s suddenly acting like a shy schoolgirl is sort of freaking him out. This is _Yoichi_ after all. He should be acting naturally: And yet, the natural part of him says that he’s not used to being complimented like this at all.

  
  


“I’m serious, Hyakuya!” Yoichi gushes, his green eyes so wide and full of energy, life. “I mean. At least you’re a lot better at this than I am.” And, _woah_ , does the atmosphere do a complete one-eighty after that, so quickly that Hyakuya has to do a double-take as Yoichi withdraws within himself. Meek again, smiling shyly and pointedly avoiding Hyakuya’s eye. Hyakuya privately decides he much prefers the Yoichi from just a moment ago. Bursting and full of life. Insistent, though gentle with his enthusiasm. “I’m just support. Back up. I can only do long-range attacks.”

  
  


“Bull. C’mon, give yourself some cred. You’re a whiz at this, Yoichi. I’m just following your lead.”

  
  


Yoichi nods at that, still unconvinced, still avoiding eye contact. Lips part, and a murmurーhesitant, unsureーslips delicately into the air, hovers between them amidst the human noise of Shibuya: “...You truly trust me?”

  
  


“Yeah,” Hyakuya sighs. “I really do.” 

 

Honestly, he’s no good with this whole comforting thing, but he knows he’s right. Yoichi is far more knowledgeable about this Game than himself. Hell, where would he be without Yoichi? The important material and mechanics of this twisted Game would have remained a mystery without his help.

  
  


(“Phones can't get calls coming in, and you can’t make any going out. We only get messages with the mission of the day.”

  
  


“Did you know you can read people’s thoughts? Ah, no, I’m serious! I heard it’s called... oh, 'scanning.'”

  
  


“Fight the Noise with pinsーanything else is useless.”

  
  


“We should stick together. Stay alive for seven days: We’re fighting for something important, something we’ve lost.”

  
  


“Be careful where you scan and who you scan. There’s perverts out there, Hyakuya…”)

  
  


And, sure, his partner is too preciously pure at times. But he undoubtedly trusts the guy with his life.

 

 

And so, Hyakuya declares sincerely with passion in his heart: 

 

 

“I _trust_ you, Yoichi.” 

 

 

He repeats, affirms, and is relieved to see a small smile sent in his direction.

  
  


**week one：day five。**

  
  


Their bond grows thereafter.

  
  


Fighting Noise confidently and with undeterred trust. Completing missions with only seconds to spare and trading relieved and frightened laughs at their near deaths once the timers vanished from their palms. Laughing in the midst of this Hell they’d found themselves in. Grinning together despite looking Death straight in the eye. They did it together.

  
  


Unspoken it may have been, Hyakuya had grown to trust Yoichi, love him like something precious. This is frightening. What if Yoichi were to vanish? What if challenging Death in the face was not enough? These thoughts encouraged something vicious in Hyakuya, a desire to protect and defend even at the cost of his own well-being. Yoichi is someone who must be defended, shielded from the horrors of the Game.

  
  


So, the switch of roles: Now, _he_ follows Yoichi, and follows him loyally, willingly. Yoichi’s goals and desires become Hyakuya’s.

  
  


(Is this what it means to have someone to live for? A frightening feeling. Hyakuya doesn’t know whether to hate it or embrace it.)

  
  


**week one：day six。**

  
  


Had he something to live for, prior to this Game, prior to Yoichi? His partner mentioned that the point of this chaos is to reunite with something important by the end of the week. Something lost. What was Hyakuya's Loss, anyway? It couldn’t have been _that_ important, right if he forgot it.

 

 

Is it name? A mental shrug. Maybe.

  
  


He wonders what Yoichi's lost, too. Wonders if it has something to do with the way he hides behind that phone…

  
  


Curiosity gets the better of him.

  
  


“Yo.” Hyakuya gestures to the phone Yoichi has his nose buried in once again. “What’s up?”

  
  


“Eh? What’s up with... what exactly?” Savior stutters dumbly in question, wide eyes trailing up from the screen.

  
  


_This guy._ Hyakuya rolls his eyes with a small grin and gestures to the phone again, which Yoichi quickly digs into his pocket with a furious wave of his hands and goes with the bullshit excuse that _it’s nothing, please forget it._

  
  


“Hey, come on, I'm not an idiot. You’re always on your phone. Can’t be Twitter or anything like that. It’s something, tell me.” He means to say this is encouragingly, giving Yoichi a nudge with his elbow.

  
  


“We.... aren’t any closer to the mission just standing here, right, Hyakuya? We should get going.”

  
  


_Smooth, man._

  
  


Okay, so Yoichi obviously no expert in the delicate art of Changing the Subject. Why torment the guy any more, though? Obviously, he doesn’t want to talk about it. Hyakuya leaves the subject to rest, to die. It’s not his business to dig into Yoichi’s past. He trusts the present Yoichi right in front of him, the guy risking his ass with him as his partner. All he needs to know.

  
  


They press on together. The last day. They’re at the home stretch. Almost there. Almost home.

  
  


**week one：day seven。**

  
  


Yoichi’s final words are about his sister.

 

 

She was his Loss. He's fighting for her. He's been looking at a picture of her on his phone this entire time. Hyakuya glimpses it at Yoichi's side, who's blindly reaching for it. Hyakuya tearfully berates and fights to keep the bloodied boy still, safe on his lap and in his arms as he grabs the phone for him.

 

 

One last look: Hyakuya knows that traditionally meek grin belongs only to Yoichi. And his sisters is just the opposite: proud, daring the world.

 

 

It's cute, Hyakuya says. Says something like that. He's not sure he can make it out himself, his words are so watery. 

 

 

Yoichi seems to understand it clearly. Yoichi summons a faint laugh that's more like a strangled cough.

 

 

Red lips part, but nothing else comes. Green eyes glaze over.

 

 

And that’s all Hyakuya figures out about Yoichi's sister; the rest is left unspoken on Yoichi's bloodied lips. They perish with the body in Hyakuya’s arms.

 

 

He promised he’d protect Yoichi Saotome.

  
  


And now Yoichi Saotome is dead.

  
  


A scream. Loud, searing scream that tears at his skin, crushes his heart. A scream of failure, sorrow, pain.

  
  


.

  
  


(A dream. It has to be. He doesn’t feel Here or There or Anywhere, but scenes flash to mind so vivid, so real. Foreign faces so familiar. Child corpses beaming with wide, toothy grins. Speaking in unison to him, the sole survivor, bringing to life guilt that remains unspoken in his heart.

  
  


He screams at their bloodied, toothy grins. A scream of failure, sorrow, pain.

  
  


Not a dream.

  
  


A nightmare.)

 

.

 

 


	2. Shihō Kimizuki

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //brief suicide mention at the end of this chapter
> 
>  
> 
> several points in this fic i just gave zero fcks about yū and shihō’s dialogue h a h a. 
> 
> thank ya’ll for the crazy love on the first chapter, i sincerely adore every kudos and comment i received! 
> 
> (also learning twewy came out on this day 8 years ago?? i'm just looks at camera)

**week two：day one。**

 

 

Three realizations burn in him when he wakes. Back smoldering against the asphalt. Eyelids fluttering at the sunlight. Golden and hot.

 

  1. He’s in the heart of Shibuya. Scramble Crossing. He’s been here before. The entire city, in fact, is home. How the hell he knows this is a mystery.

  2. Hyakuya. That’s his name. Gotta be. It flits to mind as an irrevocable truth when he scans his memories. Memories that frustratingly bare, save for this item. He gnashes his teeth in defeat.

  3. Yoichi Saotome. Feels familiar on the tongue; feels foreign aloud. But _heavy_ in the sense that the name has as much importance and weight as his own.




 

This much is sorted out in four minutes and thirty-six seconds. (The timer seared into his palm burns like _a bitch,_ _holy mother of Zeus_.)

 

Another minute and forty seconds to pass of aimless wandering and deceptively casual head scratching, which vainly masks the slow build up of anxiety and fear that coils his gut. And just as his disguise begins to melt, just as he’s about to erupt into a cold sweat, blind sprint, mad frenzy…

 

In saunters his savior. Another in the same predicament. Timer and everything.

 

With the brutish exterior of a delinquent that’s softened by a bright explosion of fuzzy, pink hair that's probably soft to the touch if Hyakuya thinks about it too deeply. _But he's not, he swears._

 

The guy probably had his fair share of run-ins with fire sprinklers though.

 

Hyakuya shares this in jest; Pinky misses the humor.

 

Formal introductions are quick: Reciprocating punches to the face, making up over a few heated words exchanged about one another’s mothers, and a revelation: The telephone pole has a name, Shihō Kimizuki.

 

(But ‘telephone pole’ and ‘pinky’ are charming. Hyakuya sticks with this.)

 

“Hyakuya,” he declares his nameーwhat he knows of itーin return, then flinches when a makeup-loaded face crosses between the pair, a tad too close even for societal standards. Rude as ever, the face moves on, as if they weren’t even _there_.

 

Telephone pole curls his lip in what Hyakuya thinks is mutual offense, only to realize the lip curl is directed at _himself._

 

“Family name?”

 

“Could be.” 

 

Like hell he knows. Stupid telephone pole asking him stupidly complicated questions. Far more important things to be justifiably freaking out about. 

 

Hyakuya shoves his hands into his pockets. “The hell is this about anyway? My phone says something about a Game.”

 

“Yeah. Got that too.”

 

“Seven hundred yen it’s a prank?”

 

“Gotta be.”

 

Good one then. Hyakuya flexes his fingers, palm tick, tick, ticking down the time.

 

_Good one._

 

 

**week two：day two。**

 

 

They’re dead. Obsolete. Kicked the bucket.

 

They’re playing for that coveted Second Chance, playing to reclaim their Loss taken from them as entry into the Game.

 

Long story short: They learn this is the real damn deal. 

 

Hyakuya tries not to hypothesize the what ifs and hows, but he _obsesses_ about the body. (Removing ‘his’ from the equation is a small comfort that doesn't give him enough damn distance from this crisis.)

 

Is he in a landfill somewhere, discarded with the rest of the trash? Or is he six feet under in a wooden, four-sided box, a decomposing pile of flesh where maggots slither slimy trails over exposed, crusted bonesー

 

“ _Focus._ ”

 

A strong voice, a tight hand rocks his shoulder, saving him from his unsettling thoughts and kindly delivering him to the unsettling present. Hyakuya sucks in a breath, wills his beating chest to calm a fraction, and slides his eyes up to the concrete battlefield before him.

 

“Thanks.”

 

(Did he just say ‘thanks’ for getting pep talk from the telephone pole? Put that down as a first.)

 

Make no mistake: Telephone pole’s still an asshole. A-class pink prick. Apparently his partner, too, which is the icing on the crappy cake.

 

So it’s easy to see how and why Hyakuya can’t keep his fist out of Shihō’s gut for two seconds, and vice versa.

 

But. When they’re like this, back to back and surrounded by Noise? Hyakuya wouldn’t trust any other Player in this entire Game to cover his ass. 

 

The Noise never stood a chance.

 

“Walk in the park.”

 

Hyakuya cranks his shoulder upon finishing the last of the creatures, and not for the first time does he have this crazy thought:

 

Maybe this Game isn’t so bad.

 

Take out the whole survival thing, and the fact that they’re _dead_ … The mechanics aren't that hard to break in. Get mission, do mission, kill Noise. Rinse and repeat. Hyakuya can get used to this cruel cycle. They can survive for seven daysー

 

A cough cuts his thoughts.

 

“Walk in the park my _ass_.”

 

The responding voice is much weaker, a croak almost. Hyakuya has to dash to support his partner just before his knees hit the concrete. Kimizuki spits up a mouthful of blood.

 

“Woah. Easy, man. Take itー”

 

Hands punch at Hyakuya's shoulders, shoving him a distance away.

 

“ _Don’t touch me._ Think I’m some idiot? What was that? You took out most of them _yourself_.” The growl grows fiercer with each word, and just when the build up seems to peak to a savage scream, Shihō’s voice drops to a chilly, deathly calm accusation: “You’re too good at this. You’ve played this before.”

 

What? _No_.

 

Wrong, Hyakuya wants to roar. He hasn’t! Think about it: Who forgets going through some fucked up bullshit like _this_?

 

But he’s shaking. Too weak to roar and too disoriented to give any stronger defense than a smothered, “I... I don'tー”

 

Shihō stomps toward him, and damn it if Hyakuya isn’t shrinking back and countering with a clumsy backward shuffle of his own. He doesn’t know _why_ but he’s suddenly  _afraid_ , so very afraid of those blazing eyes that whisper to him what’s coming next, the inevitable question that he himself has skipped, skirted, danced around since the start of this Game.

 

He fights not to wither, not to fall to the concrete and plug his ears when a bellow bursts forth:

 

_“Who the hell are you?”_

 

He has no answer. 

 

So he stands dumbly, spewing rasping stutters as Shihō dives forward, snaps up a fistful of collar, and rams his head right between Hyakuya’s eye sockets.

 

 

**week two：day three。**

 

 

They make up over driving lessons the next day:

 

The front legs of the cafe chair crash down from the tipped position Shihō had it in. It startles Hyakuya to attention.

 

He’d been staring at the perky white-haired cafe owner. The guy had politely delivered their order to the table with an equally polite smile that Hyakuya would be rude to not return (Shihō thought otherwise).

 

Hyakuya guesses the ownerーShinya, given comfortably as though not his first nameーmakes these sort of personal deliveries when there’s only, like, two other customers in the place.

 

(By the way, how fantastically _nice_ of the Reapers, the game mods, bosses, _whatever those assholes with black wings are called_ , to give Players the opportunity to have _some_ people see them. Would be far too easy, otherwise, right?)

 

Cool guy, that Shinya. Infectiously chipper and chatting it up with patron that just walked in, who is in no time for today’s bullshit and just wants his goddamn cuppa joe, the usual. His words exactly. They must go back.

 

“Got any ambitions, Hyakuya?”

 

He blinks at Shihō.

 

Is this an actual question or an interrogation?

 

It slides effortlessly from Shihō's lips over the rim of his cup, but a taste of distrust from yesterday lingers. The words are sharp, crisp, and the way his name is said gives the impression that Kimizuki is skeptical even this piece of information about his partner is legit.

 

And who could blame the guy, honestly? Hyakuya doesn’t even know himself. Yeah, it hurts being eyed like a suspect. Wounds him. But he isn't gonna cry over it, especially when Shihō’s got every stinking right to be suspicious.

 

“Ambitions?” A smirk shines in the telephone pole’s direction, a casual effort to bridge the rift between them that’s completely brushed off. “Sure, yeah. Let me braid your hair while I remind you why I wanna get the hell out of this Game.”

 

To Hyakuya’s dismay, the offer is ignored; Shihō shares: “My old man is president of this automobile manufacturer. When he croaks, the whole thing is mine.”

 

It’s a boast Hyakuya isn’t ready to blow holes in, and he’s not going to call bullshit on it, either. If telephone pole discloses this in confidence, well, it means _something_ , right? You don’t share with strangers. You lie to them.

 

Then again, he's in no position to question Shihō’s legitimacy with their fragile partnership hinged on his own lacking sense of self. Besides, he catches the way Shihō literally _spits_ about his father. He’s not about to wade chest-deep in the thick of _that_. Moving on, he tries to keep this conversation going. Whatever he needs to do to encourage and preserve this open trust between them.

 

“Cars? That’s pretty cool.” Awe and childish reverence that he doesn’t even try to hide widens his eyes, his brows rising up high on his head. “Company I know? Toyota? Mitsubishi? C’mon, give it up.”

 

“ _Car company._ ” Shihō reiterates through teeth. “All you need to know.”

 

“Princess Pinky can’t bother giving details to the pleb. Fine, asshole. Know how to drive?”

 

“Course I do.”

 

“License. Let me see it.”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

Dodgy. Hyakuya clicks his teeth and falls back against his seat with a toothy grin, victory brightening his eyes. "You're full of crap." 

 

Okay, so Hyakuya can’t drive, or at least doesn’t have the basic know-how locked down when he first wakes in Shibuya.

 

At least he’s not looking forward to being future president of a freaking car company, damn. That would be sad and embarrassing.

 

Shihō’s brows come together just over the rim of his glasses, and he fishes for something in his back pocket. A card flings to the table, face-up and with Shihō Kimizuki's face pictured to the left.

 

Hykauya’s mouth could have hit the coffee table.

 

“Huh. Look at that.” Shihō drawls, head tipped sideways. “ _Driver’s license._ ”

 

“No kiddingー _holy shit_!”

 

The card disappears quickly from view, and Hyakuya has not an ounce of shame when he squeals a high pitched whine at a missed opportunity to reverently stroke the powerful piece of plastic. He presses forward against the edge of the table. “You actually _drive!_  Teach me?”

 

“Hell no. We’ve got a Game to win, idiot.” Shihō bristles as he tucks his license away. 

 

“How about after? C’mon...” Public humiliation and pride be damned: Hyakuya's whining now, leaning into his pleas with not entirely artificial affliction. 

 

“What’s with all this devotion? It's freaking me out. You look like you’re gonna kiss my ass.”

 

“Hey, I’ll give it more than just a kiss if it means you’llー”

 

“ _Stop._ ” Shihō’s hand flies in front of Hyakuya’s grinning face. “ _Please_. I’ll teach your dumbass how to drive, justー _stop_.”

 

 

**week two：day four。**

 

 

Shihō's a Shibuya virgin, so Hyakuya decides to take him out.

 

Never seen 104 in person? Tried any of Dogenzaka’s ramen? Checked out Udagawa's back streets? Check, check, triple check.

 

Life up there in Hokkaidō is closed-off for a telephone pole that slaves most of the year cooped up in a stuffy international school.  

 

“Country boy.” Hyakuya grins.

 

Shihō snarls. “I’ll kick your teeth in.”

 

It’s a sobering tragedy; it also explains _everything_.

 

Every turn they make, every new district and corner that opens up for them to explore, the glare of Shihō's glasses fail to conceal his precious awe, drinking up every piece of the the city like this is the first time he’s been here. Because it is.

 

Which is why Hyakuya decides to take a break from the mission, because why not? They have all the time in the world, at least for today. He’ll be damned if he’s not going to enjoy this while they're off the clock.

 

“No time limit today. Let’s check out this ramen place I know. Should be fun. My treat.”

 

“Like a date, huh?”

 

It’s an offer the telephone pole wipes his ass with in a dismissive snort, because clearly the princess is too high up on his pedestal to deign grace the pleb with a congenial, ‘Sounds fun. Thanks.’

 

Hyakuya plays along.

 

“Sure. So shut up and hold my hand.”

 

“You’re joking.”

 

A thick silence settles between them. Kimizuki’s grimace slowly morphs from deadpan to the start of incredulity, until Hyakuya’s straight mask cracks into a smirk. From there it bubbles into a fresh laughter that drowns out Kimizuki’s sour, ‘you  _ass_ ’.

 

“Damn right. Let’s go. Ten-Four first; Dogenzaka later.”

 

 

**week two：day five。**

 

 

Hyakuya learns why Shihō is fighting so hard.

 

“For my sister. Getting out of this bullshit.”

 

“Sister. Huh.” A sympathetic hum. Hyakuya shoves his hands into his pockets.

 

(Yoichi has a sister, too. He knew nothing else about the guy until just now, but it rings as truth.)

 

“She’s sick. Hospital bills are piling up. I'll pay it off when I get the company, make money.” Kimizuki angles his head so only one glass lens burns into Hyakuya with scratching scrutiny. “Gotta sister? Siblings?”

 

“No. Don’t know. Maybe.”

 

“Got someone to fight for? Reason to live?”

 

A careless shrug.

 

Did telephone pole already forget he’s a walking, breathing, memory loss case from head to toe? Like hell he knows anything about himself other than his family name. (Remembering his given name would be too much of a gift for luckless bastard like himself.)

 

Ah, well... There is _one_ person.

 

“Yoichi.”

 

“Ha?”

 

Hyakuya meets Shihō's critcal stare. “Yoichi Saotome. I’m fighting for him.”

 

“Boyfriend?”

 

“Could be." Shihō's sarcastic intent falls flat at the honest answer Hyakuya gives. Hell, the telephone pole looks like he could have taken a literal fall himself. Hyakuya smirks. “Quit staring. Gonna make me blush, man.”

 

Shihō recovers immediately, adjusting his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose.

 

“You took me out yesterday knowing you have a boyfriend?”

 

Shoulders roll again. While he's sure the guy isn't being entirely serious, still Hyakuya casually corrects his partner.

 

“ _Could be-maybe_ boyfriend.”

 

Yoichi Saotome could have very well been a boyfriend. Could have been just a friend. Could have been anybody. But Yoichi Saotome is the second name that comes to mind when he awakes to the first day. He’ll be damned if he lets him go so easily. No face, no image, nothing. Just a name. But a name real and  _important_. 

 

Only sounds right announcing that Yoichi Saotome is who he’s fighting for. His reason to live.

 

 

**week two：day six。**

 

 

Fingers dig into his throat. He can’t breathe. He’s _dying_.

 

He doesn’t fight it.

 

Shihō is belligerent. Screaming something that’s hard to make out because everything just fades in and out of focus until he catches only pieces of sentences, like rapidly flipped television channels.

 

“ーReapers! You fucking _heard_ theー”

 

_Jumble jumble, something something._

 

“ーonly one of us is saved! The other staysー”

 

_Jumble jumble, something, somethingー_

 

(The world’s spinning too fast, slow it down. Make it stop, _please_.)

 

“...Then go.”

 

Small, diminutive choke. Hyakuya coughs.

 

The hand loosens. Shihō fades into view as a lanky, pink fuzz. A muffled message pours into throbbing ears, so low Hyakuya almost doesn’t catch it:

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

“Need your sister… Hospital bills piling up… You go on.”  

 

Feet find the ground once again, the pressure on his neck allows him to breath easier, and his palms push and scrabble at the wall as he wobbles for support, gulping, gasping greedily for breath.

 

The response is like glass, brittle and fragile. Again, Hyakuya almost misses it:

 

“What aboutー”

 

“Yoichi...” Hyakuya chokes out the name, that precious name. Yeah. He’s getting him back, too. But...

 

“None of us deserve life any more than the other.”

 

The exchange falls silent, but Kimizuki understands. Hyakuya can’t see it blooming on his face, because he’s angling it away from his gaze. Still, the silence in place of it imparts all of this and more.

 

If what the Reapers say is true, if only one of them can make it out, Hyakuya volunteers to be the sacrifice that stays behind.

 

What’s does Hyakuya With No Given Name have to go back to? Nothing, for all he knows.

 

Meanwhile, Kimizuki has a life. A future.

 

Kimizuki’s still hiding his face. His glasses’ glare strategically hides his eyes, too. Is he ashamed? Shouldn’t be. Anyone would crumble like that. Even princesses.

 

“I’m still teaching your dumbass how to drive. So concentrate on getting your ass out. Win.”

 

Hyakuya gives a strangled chuckle.

 

“Damn straight, telephone pole.”

 

 

**week two：day seven。**

 

 

With a sigh, Hyakuya closes his eyes, dips his head back, and imagines it: The fairytale ending for his princess in pink.

 

If Shihō Kimizuki wasn’t born the illegitimate son of a company president, shipped off to Hokkaidō where his father's shame could never reach the mainland. If he actually had a chance to pay off his sister’s hospital bills.

 

If they had won the game.

 

If Kimizuki Shihō had made it. If he wasn’t cold, dead, gone in Hyakuya’s arms.

 

( _Seven minutes: How long a partnerless player can last before they die. Hyakuya's palm tick, tick, ticks down. Five minutes and forty-two seconds pass._ )

 

Why had Kimizuki fought? There was no light at the end of the tunnel for him. No future. The company would never be his. His sister was terminally illーno chance saving her.

 

The world Shihō Kimizuki fought for is ugly. Why return to such ugly odds?

 

“Idiot. We haven’t even gone on our second date.”

 

Hyakuya smiles.

 

It’s the stupidest thing to say to the body of a dead comrade, a dead friend, someone precious you’ve spent the last seven days fighting for your life with, and so perhaps they know you better than anyone else.

 

And Hyakuya smiles through the tears as Erasure embraces him, swallows him.

 

And while he mourns and succumbs, it comes to him:

 

_This ending is familiar._

 

 

.

 

 

(It’s too familiar. This isn’t a dream. It’s a vision of his life before the Game. He can tell. Small faces surround him with eager smiles. The surroundings are pitch white, like he’s floating in the afterlife, but it smells of home. Family. There’s another boy off to his side, inscrutable from head up, a shadow over his features. But the boy’s smiling. Naturally Hyakuya smiles back.

 

Then, he’s in a bathtub. He’s dead. Suicide by sliced wrists.

 

Why fight? The world is ugly. What ugly world is worth returning to that he left with a frigid body and bleeding wrists?)

 

 

.

 


	3. Sangū Mitsuba

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just really wanted to get this off my computer. (and also wanted to change that summary bc ew 7-months-ago me)
> 
> looking back on this i can't help but cringe but it’s all good it’s all fun in the end PLUS ROAN BETA’D ME SO THERE’S THAT
> 
> heads up for very sketchy and fragmented style bc i aint got time for anything more detailed than that, sorry! :c hope someone out there enjoys it nonetheless?? (and if not anyone, then at least I did woopwoop)

  
  
  
  


  
  


**week three: day one.**

 

“Hey, so. You uppercut a bear back there.” 

 

“Yep.”

 

Hyakuya can confirm: Built like a mini bull head to toe. Carrying a proud stride that dares the world to deny. 

 

Sangū is a terrifying force.

 

For one, Sangū uppercuts bears. There’s nothing simple about uppercutting giant bears. Didn’t happen. 

 

Except if you're a Sangū. 

 

Seemingly satisfied with the terse response, Hyakuya nods once, shoves his hands into his pockets, chews on the words to feign thoughtful reflection, then concludes:

 

“Yeah. Simple my ass."

  
  
  
  


**week three: day two.**

 

_ We're not partners, _ his partner insists. 

 

That moment when their fingers joined together on Day One.

 

That moment when time shivered and melted and suddenly Sangū’s thoughts became one with Hyakuya’s.

 

That moment when their drumming hearts thrash, thrash, thrashed with adrenaline, a pinch of panic, a dash of rapturous thrill.

 

That moment so familiar and so foreign since, certainly, this is the first time something like this has ever happened to him...

 

Their relationship is strictly business _._

 

Hyakuya called it what it was: a Moment, but his trembling laughter is strangled silent by Sangū’s unsettling pause that warns of an uppercut. 

 

Thereafter, Hyakuya agrees. Strictly business.

  
  


**week three: day three.**

 

“Hate to say thisー”

 

“Then don’t. Shut up.”

 

“Nah. I'll say it anyway: You’re ‘effing scary, Sangū.”

 

He deflects the glare over Sangū’s shoulder with a sluggish shrug. Takes sudden interest in yet another ramen shop they pass on Dogenzaka. 

 

“I mean, I'm all for scary. Hell yeah for scary. It’s justーIt’s the accent, probably. Definitely the accent. You talk fast, too. Like you’re from Osakaー”

 

“Look, Hyakuya.”

 

Violet eyes flicker. Thick arms bunch high against Sangū's chest, spinning on a boot heel to meet Hyakuya's eyes. (A minute before Hyakuya had been admiring how Sangū’s deltoids came together in a perfect fleshy triangle at the back of the neck, noting the blond bits of hair peeking from underneath the camo cap.)

 

“Wanna go home?”

 

Sangū spies the hesitation that creases Hyakuya’s forehead and erroneously equates silence to confirmation. What Sangū neglects to see is the haze that dims his green eyes, slants his lips.

 

(Which is fine, Hyakuya’s fine with this. Fine with not having to deal with another mental breakdown like on day one at the Scramble. Let Sangū think he dreams of Home, some essence of Family, concepts which are now as clear as fog to him. Makes things hell of alot easier this way.) 

 

“Here’s all I’m asking," Sangū's bark breaks his thoughts, and for once he's grateful for it. "Shut up. Follow my lead. Do this, I’ll get us both out of here.” 

 

He shouldn’t poke the sleeping bear; but obviously he’s danced with death already, no stranger to the teasing tune of risk taking, so he playfully mutters:

 

_ “Sir, yes sir.” _

 

A combat boot lashes from his side, Hyakuya has miliseconds to praise his peripherals when he narrowly catches Sangū’s heel, centimeters from his cheek.

 

“Sangū, the _fu-”_

 

“Shut it.” 

 

The leg drives in deeper. Hyakuya snarls, rubber heel grinding into his palm. 

 

“And don’t call me sir.  _ Ever." _

  
  


**Week three: day four.**

 

The Force of Nature has dissolved.

 

“I’m not going back. Don’t make me go back. I can’t. I can’t. I  _ can’t _ .”

 

Sangū is suffering. 

 

(Maybe _has_ been suffering. Has _always_ been suffering.) 

 

Curled up in the shadows of an alleyway where the noise of Shibuya, the entire world, Hyakuya’s comfort cannot capture and console. 

 

It doesn’t stop Hyakuya from trying. He takes Sangū’s arms.

 

“Screw that.” Emotional, thick with more brutality than intended, he tries again with a touch more delicacy. “We’re getting out. Second Chanー”

 

“ _Stop_ . Just, stop. Shut up. Stop talking. I’m fine like this. I’m fine. I’m not going back. I want to die.”

 

Sangū is not a Force of Nature.

 

Sangū is human. 

 

A dead human. 

 

Like himself.

 

He combs back a few stubborn strands from his left eye for the hundredth time since he’d woken up in Shibuya for God-knows what reason. 

 

A nervous tic from the Guy with No Name. 

 

(Just a family name, a humorous tragedy and societal commentary that his individuality should take second place even in the afterlife.)

 

(What life did _he_ leave behind? One not worth living if he can’t remember a damn thing from it.)

 

(Sangū’s got the right idea. Staying dead doesn’t sound too bad.)

 

“I get it. I do.” A Whisper in the noise of Shibuya. It’s swallowed, snapped up entirely by the streets. “It seems easy.”

 

That’s not it. Those aren’t the right words. The fire in those violet eyes tell him so. Burn him on the spot. 

 

“Leave me _alone_. Leave me alone and let me _die._ ”

 

One thing leads to another. Spiraling cause and effect. 

 

Sangū stands; Hyakuya snatches the retreating wrist. 

 

(Because he cannot let Sangū leave. Not like this. Not after that. Not alone.  _ Protect your partner, _ whispers a voice of foreign familiarity.)

 

A wrestleーto the ground they tumble. Hyakuya leans over his collapsed partner’s body, knee in between Sangū’s legs. A fan of long, blond hair greets his startled eye, loose from the fallen cap, and for the first time in four days Hyakuya notices Sangū’s firm jaw line doesn’t entirely coincide with the gentle slope of the nose.

 

He trembles.

 

“Sanー”

 

_ “Get off me! Don’t look!”  _

 

He ducks his head, glimpses Sangū sink deeper into the concrete, swallowed whole by a veil of blond hair. Cries swallowed whole by the noise. (A Whisper in Shibuya. Unheard and suffering in the heartbeat that never stops and takes pity on no one, because the world keeps turning.) Pondering the gesture, the urgency of it, Hyakuya thinks back to his knee between Sangū’s legs. He shifts rigidly onto his feet, and patiently tracks a passing walker that of course doesn’t register his existence.

 

“So. Uh. _Ma’am_ , then?” 

 

“Neither. Sangū Mitsuba’s fine.”

 

Hyakuya tastes the name in its entirety for the first time, then nods, because Sangū Mitsuba _is_ fine.

 

“I liked western fairy tales.”

 

Watery words pull his attention. Sangū’s head is sheltered deep within thick arms, wrapped tight around bent knees. 

 

"I wanted to be royal. I wanted to be handsome. Beautiful and handsome. I'm handsome here." A beat of silence. “Mostly.”

 

"Come on. Nothing wrong with you. You’re fine." 

 

(He should can cheap after-school special platitudes. This isn’t a fairytale.)

 

Mitsuba gives a sad smirk meant to be overlooked between bent knees.

 

“You don’t get it. Can’t expect you to. I always thought it’d be better if I were dead, I’d finally be happy: And I am. I’m happy here. I have all I ever wantedーso why isn’t it enough? I want to go home. I don’t want to die. Why can’t I have both? I want to live. I want to be happy. I don’t want to choose. Why can’t I have both?”

  
  


**Week three: day five.**

 

_ “Mikaela Hyakuya.” _

 

The burnt file trembles in his hands. He moans out the name among the debris field of the hospitalーagain, and again, and again.

 

“I know,” Sangū answers, small and fragile.

 

They came across it, and Hyakuya didn’t know why he needed to shift through the debris like a maniac, why the burned rubble of the psychiatric hospital called to him so. He had choked, had dug with torn palms and nails and wrestled out of Mitsuba’s grip when his partner tried to restrain him.

 

_ “Hyakuya.” _ The world twists and tilts and he sinks to his knees. “No.” Lips tremble into his palm, fingers clawing into his scalp, his hands cannot keep  _ still  _ damn it. “Damn it,  _ no.  _ He’s  _ dead _ . They’re all  _ dead _ . My  _ family _ . They’re deー”

 

“No.” 

 

And before Hyakuya can scream a protest, Sangū burns down his forming words with a strict glare. “Listen to me. We don’t know the details, not for sure. Right now, you need to pull yourself together.” A reflective pause. “Keep moving.”

 

His hand pinches the corner of the hospital file of the smiling children. “Keep moving.” Grasping to these two words like he’s never said any truer words before, then claws the words out of his dry throat again to repeat the chant to the blue eyes that smile back at him. “Keep moving." For them. For Mika.

  
  


**Week three: day six.**

 

He doesn’t look at his surroundings the same. Not anymore. Not since yesterday. The Hyakuya Then groped blindly for something to cling to while dancing delicately between Sanity and Madness.

 

The Hyakuya Today is no different, but he knows the reasons for the Madness: 

 

Shihō Kimizuki and Saotome Yoichi. He should be dead, erased with them.

 

His family. The children he’d had in the visions before his erasure. Mikaela. Mika.

 

His memories are returning. Piece by piece. Little by little. Sangū doesn’t need to know the entire details about this being Hyakuya's third Game despite his erasures. He trusts Sangū, cares about Sangū more than enough to not drag them down into this mess. (And then there’s the fear: Sangū will distrust him, _despise_ him.)

 

So Hyakuya grasps for something, anything to preserve the camaraderie.

 

“I like baseball,” he innocently shares as he juggles his Player pin in one hand, the black skull imprinted on the pin grinning toothily at a silent, rotten joke and Hyakuya is the walking punchline. "I think."

 

“You think?” Mitsuba gives a subtle side-glance in Hyakuya's direction, probably with the hope that Hyakuya doesn’t see the visible interest raising their brows.

 

“Memory’s jacked, you know, but it’s coming back, piece by piece. Feels right saying that." And he says it again for good measure. He closes his hands around an invisible bat and takes an enthusiastic swing, then gives a kiddish giggle. “Makes me warm inside, you know? Burns, but a good kind of burn. Probably because Mika and I used to play all the time. Maybe. Definitely.”

 

“You’re perky today. Since we left the hospital you’ve been…”

 

“Yeah." Hyakuya pulls at the end of his shirt, runs his fingers through his hair, and laughs a little at the blank look on Sangū’s face. “I know. It’s just… Thought about what you told me yesterday. You’re right. He’s not dead. I know it. Can’t place it. It’s not a bad feeling either. Like, I know now. For the first time I  _ know. _ I’m fighting for my family. I’m fighting for Mika.”

  
  


**week three：day seven。**

 

He protects his partner in his arms. Sangū is beating his chest. Cursing him. Moans of pain, the only response he can give. 

  
  


He's damn sure his eyes are at least a little open, but his vision is black. Damn it. He’s a mess.

  
  


“Idiot! Idiot, idiot, you stupid  _ idiot!” _

  
  


Water drip, drip, drips on his cheek; tears, he knows. Doesn’t even have to open his eyes. (Not like he can anyway. There’s blood in them, on him, _everywhere._ ) 

  
  


He crumples to his knees as Mitsuba screams, cries, melts to the floor with him.

 

Mitsuba doesn't stop crying even as they run from the battle, from the Noise, Hyakuya carried in his partner's arms.

 

Just like a prince, the boy muses. 

  
  
  
  
  


Mitsuba cries even when they’re safe. 

  
  


He tries fruitlessly to console and silence, but “No!” Hyakuya “doesn’t understand!”, and people “don’t just  _ do  _ that, what the hell was he thinking? _ ” _

And in a another, strangled breath, Mitsuba chokes, "Why? Why protect me?"

  
  


_Partners?_ he wants to teasingly remind, but the blood seeping from his lips is enough warning. Time is running out. 

  
  


So, instead, Hyakuya shares a secret: There were other Players, people he cared about. Loved. He’s fighting for them. For Yoichi, for Kimizuki, and for Mitsuba. He's fighting for all of them. He'll suffer if it means they can have their Second Chance. He swears this.

  
  


(He learns he shouldn’t make promises. Promises always end with blood on his hands.)

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ons/twewyverse is always fun to think about and write! doing the aforementioned w/ the twewy soundtrack on repeat is pretty inspiring too.


End file.
